


The Most Precious Thing

by soloproject



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soloproject/pseuds/soloproject
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warnings: Spoilers through the movie. Some portrayal of underaged drinking and sex. Also, the notes and acknowledgements below may contain some spoilers.</p><p>Even if all their lives turn out to be an alternate reality, this is how Pavel Chekov grows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leave Nothing to Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Star Trek: XI Big Bang 2009.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pavel Chekov grows up.

All our science, measured against reality, is primitive and childlike—  
And yet it is the most precious thing we have.  
– Albert Einstein (1879-1955)

 

 

When Pavel Andreivich Chekov was four years old and in nursery class, he drew in clumsy crayon, an awkward, quartered box before proceeding to inform his classmates of all the possible outcomes of a race held between a rabbit and a tortoise. He cried when his teacher told him the fable was less about the race and more about the moral lesson at the end and that one day, he would also learn to understand it, in his own way.

“You will just have to work harder to catch up, Pasha,” she said, though not unkindly. “Slow and steady wins the race.”

A week later, his classmates cried when he told them that it made no sense for anyone to say Goodbye to the moon, because the moon was always there, hidden from sight by the brightness of the sun. A week after, during story time, he rebelled again and refused to believe that a rabbit made of velvet could transfigure into one made of flesh and blood.

 _Why,_ Pavel questioned, before his teacher finally made him sit in a corner, _were all the books for children filled with rabbits? Weren’t there any that told of how the world was made?_ When his teacher attempted to tell him the story of Creation, Pavel descended into an impressive sulk and refused to hear any more of it.

Finally, the school called his mother and she came, looking worn out from work and with a worried expression on her face. She spoke quietly to the principal while Pavel sat on a bench outside the door and picked at the Band-Aid on his knee, placed there by the school nurse when Vaclav, who was big for his age and a bully, pushed him down in the playground.

“I know it is hard, Mrs. Chekov, because Pavel is much younger than most of the children in his class and already far more intelligent. I personally do not believe that this is the right place for him…yes, yes, I know he is misunderstood and this is the only school in the district willing to take him at his young age..,” The conversation continued but Pavel shut his eyes and blocked it out.

Pavel understood, even at a young age, that his family was poor and his parents survived on good common sense and hard work. His father was a low level mechanical engineer at the large industrial facility and his mother worked in the town’s general store. There were few children his age who lived nearby but Piotr and Anastasia put up with him once in a while, when pressed by their mothers; otherwise, they were deeply involved with friends their own age. Two years between them and Pavel was long enough and they had neither the time nor the patience to allow a toddler to tag along often, especially one who could do arithmetic.

What Pavel didn’t understand was how he knew the number of tiles on the kitchen floor by multiplying the length of it by its width and why his mother slapped his palms and scolded him for marking each one with chalk. He wanted to count them, he told his mother, rubbing his eyes with his clumsy, baby fists. Pavel stared at the jar of beans on the counter and saw each one clearly, like a star and ran his finger over the surface of it before he pushed it off the counter and watched it shatter, beans spilling onto the floor like constellations.

His father spanked him over his knee for that incident and had him apologize to his mother before picking every single bean from the floor. Pavel counted each one under his breath and the final tally was so close to the number that floated in his head and the feeling of triumph so intense that it sparked a fever and he had to be tucked into bed early.

Pavel’s parents weren’t idiots and had already slowly begun to realize that their son is special. His father opened up the study to him and offered Pavel dozens of old engineering books and the row of encyclopedias that lined one shelf. A computer sat on the desk, along with a large metal cabinet, squat and locked, as if measuring up the boy before revealing its secrets. The wealth of knowledge was so attractive and overwhelming that Pavel could do no more than point at random and accept the book his father pulled from the shelf to set on the floor, so the boy could flip through it with ease.

It was the volume for the letter G, from a universal Earth history encyclopedia. It would probably have been considered outdated and obsolete, in this age of data crystals and telemetry. But it was what Pavel had right now, still a bit too young to be aware of how far the world had advanced in the 23rd century. Still, it was in good shape for its edition.

Pavel opened it up to an entry labeled _Gagarin, Yuri_ and instantly, fell in love with space.

Pavel learned that when it came to space exploration, Russia was no slouch. He read about the Arms Race and Sputnik and the lives of cosmonauts before graduating to the next century of space exploration and history. He tore through all his father’s engineering books, learned math and more science and used his free time at school to scan through the infinite archives of the internet.

Pavel absorbed everything he could on space and physics. He recognized game theory and used it to his advantage, to gain an edge in terrible schoolyard games that he wouldn’t otherwise have because of his size. He kept a lookout for transport shuttles that zoomed over his village before disappearing into orbit. All the while, at eight years old and in the third grade, Pavel had never wanted something so badly than to be aboard one of them.

It was unfortunate that his teachers couldn’t afford to show him favoritism but Pavel didn’t want any of it anyway. He didn’t much like the pitying looks they sent his way or the grim, patronizing smiles they plastered on their faces when they realized how bored he was in their classes. One high school math teacher acted on it, at least, and sat with him in the library and brought him geometry and calculus and on one confusing afternoon, Anton Chekov’s “The Cherry Orchard,” to act out when the weather was good. What this had to with math, he didn’t know.

This teacher waited patiently for Pavel to sharpen his pencils and old-fashioned as it was, made Pavel write out all the solutions to the problems, no matter how many pads of paper they had to get through to do it.

“It is important, Pavel,” the teacher told him. “That in this day and age of machines that make our work faster and more efficient, that we understand the means that brings us the end. To honor those who came centuries before us who have allowed us to make such progress.”

Pavel listened and nodded and worked, rubbing out his mistakes until the paper had holes but nevertheless, he learned the short cuts but not to make them and was rewarded by proud smiles and occasional candy. Despite the fact that his hands were still baby soft and he hadn’t learned how to be vocally succinct, he was beginning grasp in practice what he had only once known before as his personal peculiarities.

Then, one day, Pavel handed in his paper and watched as his teacher’s hands shook around it, shooting him a look raw with wonder and alarm. He took Pavel’s hand and frogmarched him to the principal’s office.

While Pavel sat outside it and studied his shoelaces, he thought of Moufang loops and whether or not his mother would have a plate of blinchiki waiting for him when he came home from school. Hardly ten minutes had gone by when the teacher-- Mr. Kuznetzov-- staggered out with a sheaf of paper and told Pavel that come Monday, he was going to be moved from the third grade to the eighth grade.

Pavel brightened at the thought of being classmates with Piotr and Anastasia and they could walk home together and he would invite them inside for a snack. But when he got home and ran to tell them the news, Piotr and Anastasia began to ignore him and Pavel didn’t know why.

 

The bullying started when Pavel was twelve, having grown taller and lankier and therefore, worth the attention. It felt to Pavel that puberty had hit him with all the impact of the fall of the Berlin wall and his muscles ached all the time with growing pains, coupled with the disappointment of being denied a growth spurt. Pavel felt like a spider, most days, spindly and uncoordinated. He didn’t understand girls or any thing, really, other than math or science. He didn’t get the appeal of cigarettes and American clothes or whatever it was teenagers were supposed to do. His one solace was he was a certified genius at the age of twelve and had gained a little attention through academic competition; particularly in the fact that he often wiped the floor with his much older opponents.

By now, Pavel had acquired his own computer with his winnings and had given the rest of it to his parents, stubbornly pushing the credit card into his mother’s hands even while they protested. He tossed the medals into his desk drawer and promptly forgot about them, retreated into more maths, somehow convinced that the numbers were like a path towards something better. He read as much as he could to learn things about space, watched live satellite feeds of exploration vessels over the surfaces of new planets and documentation from Earth colonies in other galaxies.

It was fascinating and frustrating at the same time because Pavel lived in a small village with parents who were contented with their lives and seemingly had no other ambitions other than to live a normal, simple life.

All the while, Pavel was learning how to socialize, especially how to curb his mouth when people lost interest or their eyes glazed over from lack of understanding. Most of the time he kept to himself and over time the bullying faded, going from shoving and pushing to a well-placed taunt now and again. Piotr, the childhood neighbor, often hung with his tormentors, neither taking part nor doing anything to stop it. Whether or not it was because they had played together as children, Pavel would never know. Nevertheless, Piotr was popular, tall, handsome, unreachable, and eighteen—everything Pavel wanted to be, as if that was the solution to his growing hunger.

Pavel lay in bed every night and recited prime numbers until he fell asleep. Every day that passed was another day closer to a high school certificate but every day he was more afraid of the vast, looming uncertainty beyond that.

 

On Stardate 2353, the United Federation of Planets declassified and released a series of documentation for the purpose of transparency. It was an effort to spread awareness, a clarification of the Prime Directive to help the general public understand their efforts. It was also a publicity stunt and it worked. The shiny poster covered with insignia and stern looking cadets made Pavel's mouth water. For the first time in a long time, it made Pavel act without first thinking.

Pavel downloaded the application from the central server in the library and took it home in a data key. His heart beat hard in his chest as he paged through it, skimming through standard bio-data requirements and beyond, to pages which featured difficult math equations, seemingly chosen at random. They were difficult, though not impossible, and the solutions had already begun to creep into his mind.

His first thought was that his parents wouldn't approve. To them, space was...space, black and empty and unknown. It meant stars and discovery and the thrill of exploration but Pavel was concerned that it would bring his parents grief. He loved them despite the fact that he was often uncomfortable with concepts that he could not really quantify but still he knew what hugs and kisses felt like and recognized something when his parents beamed at him with pride. He had also never gone without food or shelter and he knew his parents tried hard to fill the void that threatened to take over his mind, the black hole growing in the pit of his stomach.

But Pavel _wanted_ Starfleet. It offered him opportunity, a chance to see things if only he could convince them to take him. Overcome with a lapse of confidence, Pavel abandoned the recruitment form for a week until he couldn’t stand it anymore and filled it out, putting a fake birthdate and age. Pavel threw himself into the math, watched as it spun from his fingers with single-minded clarity onto the surface of the tablet, as his scratchy handwriting correcting into precise fonts. He worked almost feverishly until the light started to fill his room and he skipped class to hide in one of the darker corners of the library and wrote the most personal essay of his life. It was mostly without words-- Pavel didn’t have much of that by way of practice-- but he knew he was there in the numbers. He scribbled down ideas he had about the trajectory of teleportation beams and trilithium refinement. Then there was all the math that Pavel knew would allow humans to snake through the galaxy with ease and certainty, so no one would ever be lost in the hugeness of space again.

Then, in a surge of determination, Pavel hit send and it was done. Pavel stared at the screen for a while before it dawned on him what had happened. He dropped the tablet onto the floor, curled up in the corner with his head in his hands and quietly panicked.

The whole weekend was spent in bed, staring at the ceiling and breathing.

 

The summer moved slowly.

For nearly a week, Pavel read or stared out the window, the ennui coating him like a thick layer of icing until his father decided it would be better to keep him busy and brought him to work. Pavel smiled more after that, even if his mother fussed about him coming back greasy and sweaty. He had never considered following the footsteps of his father and it was tough, physical work but there was a feeling of satisfaction that he liked. Pavel liked feeling useful.

Nevertheless, the work was difficult and many of the mechanics teased him for being small. Pavel wasn’t of the same muscular build as his father. He looked more like his mother, finely lined and big-eyed, with dark, reddish-brown curly hair.

 _I’m a rabbit,_ Pavel thought, as he stared at himself in the mirror, _a velveteen rabbit who no one wants to play with._ Pavel was thirteen, taller, but now covered in freckles he detested. Sometimes, the village aunts suggested remedies, old-fashioned ones, like rubbing lemon juice to help them fade. Pavel politely shot them down; they meant well but their ideas were wives’ tales and scientifically unsound.

Pavel felt like he was floating in a bubble of discontent and disillusionment. His school counselors sometimes stopped by his house, talking to him about university and requesting testing and financial aid but Pavel had a thousand excuses for them: knew he didn’t qualify, wasn’t poor enough, too brilliant to be handled alone by mentors, too young to live alone without his parents, lived too far from the universities and couldn’t ask his parents to leave the life they built together in their peaceful town.

The guilt for all of it was heavy for many reasons and enough to stay silent and not defend his intelligence. There was time and that was his greatest advantage, the only real advantage he had, that he could afford. He was barely a teenager and even if Starfleet called in two years or three, he wouldn’t even be of recruiting age and the truth was Pavel only wanted Starfleet and Starfleet alone.

It was still hard not to feel trapped.

It was a Friday, a particularly rewarding one, when Pavel and his father came from work to find a man seated at the table with his mother. His face was creased with something like experience and his hair was touched with a little grey. He wasn’t tall but he was solidly built and Pavel’s eyes widened when he recognized the uniform of a captain, a Starfleet captain.

It had been a good day, one where Pavel had felt particularly useful, sitting around with the engineers and correcting their math. He had felt like he belonged, even though they ruffled his hair and teased him and had not let him touch heavy machinery; it was still a rare enough feeling that Pavel had allowed himself to enjoy it. When they didn’t need him, they let him sort through the factory archives and read until his eyes grew tired. But the good mood he had been carrying until that moment left him when he saw the officer in the kitchen.

His first immediate thought was _I’m done for._

Pavel hung back while his father went to meet the visitor. Pavel’s mother brought him a cup of tea and the three of them spoke for a while in low tones before turning to look at him at the same time, as he stood nervously in the kitchen doorway. His parents looked worried and confused but the captain remained calm and collected, making Pavel in turn even more nervous than he already was.

"Pavel?" His mother asked. “What did you do?”

Pavel fidgeted, his eyes darting back and forth between the adults.

"Yes, mother?" he said, abashed. “I—“

"Captain," his mother said, turning to the officer. "I am sure you're mistaken but this is Pavel. He is our only son."

"He is intelligent, for sure, something of a genius," his father cut in, waving his hands around for emphasis. "But we know nothing of him sending forms to Starfleet and he is surely not of age, not for any form of federation commission."

The Captain pulled out a sheaf of papers from the inside of his jacket and spread them on the table. "We've taken the liberty of doing a background check, Mr. and Mrs. Chekov, and we are certain he is the only Chekov, Pavel A. in this area. His school records don't lie about his mental acuity and his ability to--”

"But, to lie?" Pavel's mother's voice said, sounding disbelieving and that alone nearly bowled Pavel with guilt. However, it seemed almost like parents weren’t angry at all. It was enough to fill Pavel with hope; he felt sorry that he had begun to assume an institute like Starfleet Academy would not want him or that his parents would not approve.

"I’m sorry, mother," Pavel said, stepping forward. "I lied about my age and sent the forms in, after seeing the recruitment memorandum. I..." he trailed off. "I wanted to..." he wrung his hands, looking at the floor.

"Oh, Pavel," his mother rose from her seat and came over to hug him. Pavel hugged her back and felt truly ashamed now, for assuming that his parents would hold him back or not want the best for him or something; for the fact that he was scared of the thought of leaving them the two of them to grow old in their hometown and lose their only son to the stars long before he had grown up.

The man in the Starfleet Uniform stood. "Son," he said, sticking out his hand for Pavel to shake. "We want to overlook the little white lie about your age on the form, seeing as you're only thirteen. But these are trying times for the Federation and your proofs have some of our top physicists reeling in shock." He paused to chuckle a little bit.

He was American, Pavel marveled, he’d never really met one before. He’d read all about America’s history and their relationship with Russia. His parents spoke English because everyone was taught Standard in school but it seemed the captain was enough of a diplomat to patiently parse their accents.

"We would like to formally invite you to further your studies at the Star City Conservatory, just outside of Moscow," he told Pavel before turning to his parents. "We welcome you there, as well. We understand that he is young but we have many very young students we hope to groom into the best scientists and then some. He would be well taken care of." He turned back to Pavel.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I've introduced myself to you. I'm Captain Christopher Pike of Starfleet."

"A captain, sir?" Pavel blurted out. "Of starships?"

Captain Pike chuckled. "Maybe," he said.

 

Suddenly, the path before Pavel starts to come into focus. Despite some argument, mostly based on his personal insecurity, Pavel’s parents will not leave the house they’ve built together, although they promise to accompany him to Moscow to help him settle in. Pavel sorted out the few things he needed, according to the handbook that arrived by courier a few days after the Captain had gone.

Uniforms would be provided for him; he needed toiletries, of course and a few civilian clothes, some books. The handbook warned against the usual delinquent behavior, listed all the rules and regulations and Pavel read it over and over again, feeling one chapter of his life close and another open.

Over the next few days, Pavel floated, somewhere between earth and cloud nine. He endured some talking to from his parents about how he should carry himself; some from his neighbors when the news spread that young Chekov was leaving to join the Federation. People kept stopping by, to say goodbye or just to see him. Pavel did the best he could at explaining what was happening but drew the line at showing off the red cadet uniform they had sent him.

He knew his mother had been crying at night but pointedly ignored it, helping her instead to keep busy while they packed and marked all his belongings with his name. She made him do chores, as if to make sure that Pavel never forgot what it was like to sink his fingers into the Earth and pull up vegetables or how water felt like running from a natural source. Some of it was ridiculous and rudimentary like washing dishes or doing laundry but Pavel figured that he was being taught independence and understood that it was hard to let go of their only son but that they did it anyway, which was more than most, if not all, people his age were allowed.

Pavel vowed to make them proud of him no matter what. He wouldn’t be in real danger, not for a long while yet and he wanted to do right by them until then, to stay safe because he was determined to be assigned to a starship and when that day came, there would be no guarantees.

The trip to Moscow was probably the first vacation his parents have taken since their honeymoon and certainly the first one with Pavel in a city as big as this one. For a few days, Pavel allowed himself to relax and be dragged around to see the sights, even though his mind kept wandering off, to the day when he would finally join the ranks.

On the day he would leave for the conservatory, Pavel was treated to the sight of both his parents tearing up. He’d expected his mother to but was stunned to see his father dab at his eyes with a handkerchief, even though he had tried to play it off. They covered his cheeks with kisses, commented on how smart he looked in his cadet red and hugged him until squirmed.

His father shook his hand like Pavel was a grown-up. “Pasha,” he said gruffly and pressed a card into his hand. “It is not too many credits,” his father told him. “But call us once in a while and visit once in a while, so your mother will not miss you too badly.”

Pavel’s throat tightened and he hugged them both again. For a second he wished he was about six years old again, crawling into their bed between them to hide from storms and nightmares.

When he pulled back, he was surprised again when they presented him with a long, black box, brand new and shiny, with a gold clasp. “For luck, my Pasha,” his mother told him, smiling and dry-eyed now.

"Cadet Chekov," the junior officer of the transport cleared his throat. "We are ready for you."

Pavel manfully sat by the window and avoided looking out of it until the last minute. Then he plastered his face against its surface and waved and watched his parents until they sank out of sight. He clung to the long box on his lap until curiosity got the better of him.

It was a telescope, an antique in perfect condition. Pavel was sure it worked perfectly too, his father would have made sure. In this century, when there was equipment that allowed people to go face-to-face with black holes, with supernovas, suns and moons, it was a true symbol of human dedication, beautifully obsolete. But Pavel let tears slip down his cheeks and fall on it because it was the gift of his parents, letting him know that they were watching him, even if only through something like a telescope and they understood.

There was a note tucked under it, in his father’s neat engineer handwriting:

 _Pasha,_ it said, _Be humble for you are made of earth. Be noble for you are made of stars._


	2. Overlook Nothing

Being at Starfleet was a rush. As soon as Pavel stepped through the steel gray walls of the conservatory, he was introduced to commanding officers and professors, instructors and other cadets, academic aides and some who are alien and beautiful with blue hair, pink eyes, and green skin. It was overwhelming.

Pavel felt himself coming to life.

He called his parents when he is finally settled in his dormitory, babbling about the things he'd seen. His mother laughed and asked him to write about it in letters so she might read about the things he learned about. Pavel assured her that he would try.

There was no sign of Captain Pike and when Pavel finally got up enough nerve to ask, they informed him he was back in America, overseeing the development of new Constitution-class ships and very rarely returned to tour other campuses. That Pavel was special enough to warrant a personal visit remained unsaid and Pavel tucked that information into his memory and began to concentrate on his work.

He was Cadet Chekov now and he got used to it. He was happy when they called him for his help or his advice. Pavel worried that he came across as overly enthusiastic and excited, bouncing impatiently on his heels while waiting for approval, scowling when he was irritated and he tried as hard as he could to rein that in, grow up faster, to be able to stand up straight and school his face into something more serious.

Pavel began matching the numbers in his head to the field of study and relished being able to compartmentalize his knowledge into neater categories. His thoughts became more organized and soon he would be able to express what needed to be said with the proper words. It was incredible, the feeling like he was coming into sharp focus and he realized that once he had one concept mastered that there was room for more.

A year went by fast and Pavel turned fourteen. His parents sent him a book on Russian fairytales and he paged through it, liking the feel of paper after hours of sliding his fingers over the touch-sensitive screens or the metallic alloy that made up the transporter room.

Pavel learned to strip engines, to handle dilithium crystals; he learned to map out the stars and committed them to memory and played three dimensional chess with his roommates. They were all a little older, of course, and as disciplined as cadets were expected to be but they were still young and uninhibited in a way that Pavel had never experienced before. They taught him to hold his liquor and how to defend himself and other things that Pavel would have never learned in the classroom. Pavel turned fifteen and grew taller still, his body toned to a wiry flexibility. His freckles started to fade the more time he spent indoors, studying.

Pavel met Irina when their instructor paired them off in class. She was beautiful, dark and willowy and she seemed to find him amusing. She was also two years older than him and patient, brilliant at quantum physics and easygoing, in a gentle way. Until her, Pavel had hardly thought much about girls but when they presented their instructor with a paper on red matter, he beamed at them proudly. Irina hugged him tight in her excitement, her face pressing into the side of his neck, her scent clouding his senses and something inside Pavel stirred.

It took a month for him to sort out these feelings; at first, he tried to label them, like labeling the parts of an engine, and then imagined himself giving in to impulse but disliking the images that they brought to his mind. Pavel was the top of his class but he still felt awkward around many people, was slow to warm up and had no idea how to treat someone like Irina because she was not only a girl but a fellow cadet and an upperclassman. In six months, he thought morosely, she would receive her first commission from Starfleet and it would be somewhere he would never see her again.

Why people didn’t come with an instruction manual, Pavel would never know. He’d have to take matters into his own hands, when all of the advice he looked up in books and databanks proved useless and unhelpful at giving him any information about talking to women. The next time the cadets were given an off-campus pass for the weekend, he politely asked to take her out for a meal and then some coffee and a walk. It was almost a shock to him when Irina tilted her head and accepted.

The next weekend, they went to see a film that featured 21st century productions. The weekend after that, they caught a ballet. Irina seemed enthralled but it bored Pavel nearly to tears until she pointed the rotational mechanics when the prima ballerina whipped into a series of pirouettes and he was hooked. They murmured to each other about angular momentum and how the rotating core of the hyperdrive felt like a dance, like this one in fact, like _Swan Lake_ , and when the male dancer flung himself into a grand jetè, Pavel smiled because projectile motion was one of the basic concepts of flight.

They walked home and Pavel kissed her chastely in front of her door. Irina smiled and rubbed his face fondly with her hands and said good night.

 

It dawned on Pavel when he woke up the next morning to the shrill tones of the alarm clock that his parents had perhaps neglected to lecture him on the finer points of sex. He felt like it was too awkward to ask his roommate about it but later spaced out in class worrying it over his mind while discussing intersects. It was really unlikely that he would be able to apply anything he knows about physics to sex, could maybe substitute the electron emission from matter with feelings and the absorption of the energy, as if coming inside a warm human body was like emitting electromagnetic radiation. Pavel was mortified to realize that he had just equated orgasms with _radiation_ and also that he was half hard and had to bolt from the classroom to the nearest commode, with barely enough time to shove his pants and underwear down before he was coming all over his fist.

He berated himself about his lack of control for a good ten minutes before returning to class, looking so worn out that the instructor sent him out again to lie down in the infirmary.

 

Pavel was dully watching simulations in the laboratory and nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up to see Irina and she looked sweet and wonderful, her hair pulled out of her normally neat bun and falling around her face like a curtain.

"Pavel, you look like you need to eat," Irina said, kindly. "The tech is coming to take over. You really need to take it easy, genius," she teased. Pavel nodded and got to his feet.

"I am pretty hungry," he admitted and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Come to my room," she said, suddenly. Pavel nodded again and followed.

Co-eds were not discouraged from mixing, although it wasn’t actively encouraged either. The boys and girls were separated by dormitory buildings and there was a large common room that they all enjoyed. The cadets were mostly kept too preoccupied with duty to try anything truly reckless, trying to stay on top of their game for the chance to be picked to be the best among the best. Pavel was safe here, on this small enough campus where bullying was not tolerated. Sometimes, Pavel felt like he actually had too much time to think about other things, now that he wasn’t preoccupied with keeping out of other people’s way.

He was already learning the signals, like when to make himself scarce when his roommate brought back a girl to neck with. Pavel didn’t know how to flirt but a couple of his fellow cadets showed him how he didn’t need to if he learned how to project the earnestness of his face, how his eyes fall open with interest and how his fanaticism with the stars looked almost like lust.

At first, Pavel thought that they were kidding but later changed his mind when a few of the freshmen girls started looking in his direction. He was the same age as they were but levels ahead of them academically. It gave him a strange sort of status, the appeal of an upperclassman but without the pressure of age.

He wasn’t interested in them, though, not for a second. He liked Irina, nearly eighteen, petite but tough and bright as the sun. It was only when he stood in her room that he realized what was happening and that it could only go one of two ways, eying her nervously when she handed him a bottle of clear liquid he thought was water and took a swig.

The vodka made him choke but it wasn’t terrible or unfamiliar, just startling. Irina smiled at him and pushed him into a chair, gently, straddling him and reaching over his shoulder to dim the lamp. Her mouth was sweet and certain, taking charge of the kiss so that Pavel didn’t have to. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he put them on her thighs and ran them over the uniform of her skirt. Irina licked her lips and Pavel figured that it was going well enough so he pushed his hands up higher up her torso, underneath her red turtleneck. Her hair tickled his cheeks and he stuck his tongue in her mouth experimentally, as she bore down on him, on his half-hard cock and rocked in his lap.

It happened fast after that. Irina’s hands were deft and made quick work of his belt and his underwear and her skirt. Pavel had no idea where the condom came from, just that Irina must have planned this because he certainly didn’t have the insight to have one on him, given the—now, assumed—unlikelihood of anything like this ever happening at all.

There was a small moment of terror as Irina slid down onto him. What was he doing? What was she doing? His thoughts were tinged with a little bit of panic. He was months shy of sixteen, the age of consent and the last thing he wanted was for Irina to get into trouble for this. But his body overrode all rational thought as he shut his eyes and pulled her closer, arching up into her and throwing his head back against the back of the chair. He gasped when he came, his hands trembling as he reached down between them to thumb her clit until she did as well, although they were probably both stressed out enough, both strung out enough to come without much effort.

They got clean enough to lie in her bed together, curled around each other for warmth. It was nice, Pavel thought, nice but not explosive, almost business-like, really. There was thicker, more thrilling warmth when he was operating the high energy particle accelerator in the big laboratory. _Maybe that was what sex should feel like_ , Pavel thought, vaguely. Right now, it felt sweet and comfortable and a relief, coupled with a shred of gratitude for the way Irina had divested him of his virginity in the least embarrassing way possible. He trusted her and they were friends but, with startling post-coital clarity, Pavel knew that was all they would ever be.

Not much changed after that. Pavel was given a battery of tests in order to determine his progress. Two months after that, he turned sixteen and kissed Irina at a small get-together, friendly but meaningless. The sex became a little more enthusiastic, a little more experimental but remained nothing more than blowing off a little steam.

Irina was assigned to the Starfleet outpost in Saint-Petersburg and on her graduation day, made Pavel promise to keep in touch with her. Pavel gave her a little statuette of a ballerina and they both smiled at the memory. With his hands balled in his coat pockets, he watched as the shuttle achieved lift-off. It wasn’t until he was out-of-sight when he’d realized he’d come full circle, the feeling of disconnect he hadn’t felt in a while was growing again, like the black hole in the pit of his stomach when he was twelve years old.

It felt strange coming back to a near empty dormitory, devoid of seniors all deployed to their new commissions, as freshly minted ensigns. Pavel by now was well beyond senior year level and already getting his hands dirty with graduate level science but the truth was he was bored. The only people who were left were at least three levels below Pavel were all too green to relate or too young and, he thought with a little scorn, too beneath him.

Pavel took a shower and then got dressed in new clothes, intent on getting more lab work done but was called by his supervisor to his office. Once there, he was told to sit and did so, surprised when a piece of paper was slid across the table to him.

It was official, with the Federation logo on one side and the logo on the right with the distinct logo of Starfleet Academy-San Francisco campus. Pavel looked up at the admiral for clarification.

"Read it," the admiral said, leaning back in his desk chair, his eyes bright with something.

Pavel did:

 _Cadet Pavel Andreivich Chekov_  
Star City Conservatory  
Moscow, Russia

Cadet,

You are hereby transferred to the San Francisco main branch in the United State of America. We look forward to the completion of your official senior year certification as well as your advanced studies in the maths and sciences.

America.

 _America,_ Pavel realized, sitting up with a jolt.

The rest of the letter was a blur of detail: when, where, how, and what he would be doing for Starfleet Academy once he arrived. There wasn’t much he could do but stare in shock, his mouth opening and closing as he scrambled for words.

The admiral beamed at him. "Cadet Chekov, they have only been waiting for you."

"And my parents, Admiral?" Pavel asked.

"It is a bit urgent but we have taken the liberty of informing them. You have a week to wrap things up here and visit with your parents but Cadet," the Admiral lifted a finger. "I hope you realize what an honor this is."

"I do, sir," Pavel managed. "I do."


	3. Combine Contradictory Observation

The first step he took on American soil felt like a whole new kind of freedom.

A child prodigy all his life, having endured bewildered parents, bullies, loneliness, and academic pressure, had all become worth it. At sixteen, Pavel finally received the reward of being assigned to Starfleet in America, to the San Francisco main campus, where it was not only the flagship school but the home of Starfleet Command. It was where the best of the best studied and worked and lived, where his brain would be valued for what it was and not as any sort of novelty.

The conceit lasted the entirety of the shuttle ride, just a marginally longer puddle jump than any of the previous trips he had taken, not many at all, in his quest to achieve the biggest leap of all, the one what would put him in space.

As soon as Pavel stepped down from the shuttle with his one bag and his telescope, he was immediately greeted by a severe-looking junior officer and led through the winding hallways of the main building, through crowds of cadets all in red but with skin, hair, features of every imaginable color, race, shape and form, so many more of them—thousands in number—than he had ever experienced in his life. The junior officer nudged him to grab his attention and gestured to the door they had paused in front of, the office of Admiral Richard Barnett.

"Welcome to America, Cadet Chekov," the Admiral said in greeting, rising from behind his desk to appraise him.

Pavel stood up straight, at attention, just like he had been taught.

"At ease, please, Cadet. We've heard a great deal about you and feel like you will be a great asset to Starfleet here, despite your age," the admiral said. "But please do no feel like that is an obstacle in any way, Cadet Chekov. If there is something you require, for your own personal study, simply make a request. So long as it's within Academy regulations," he added, with a twinkle in his eye.

 

America was overwhelming.

Russia was bigger but here in America there were just _so many people_ crammed into one place. Many of them seemed carefree, outgoing, and Chekov—he was truly Chekov, now, no longer Pavel or Pasha-- found the first two or so weeks difficult, by virtue of the culture shock alone. He made a friend or two in his stellar cartography classes and was subject to initial embarrassment at first when they teased him about his accent. Chekov always thought his Standard was good but realized here in America that everyone lacked a particular level of politeness, at least when it came to breaking the ice with strangers. It would take some getting used to, this targeting of seeming flaws.

It was all in jest, Chekov learned, and began to use it to his advantage as well, weeding out the friendly ones from those who were really spiteful of his intelligence and just wanted to pick on him. It got easier, even though he kept mixing up his Vs and Ws, a fact that drove home while he sat in a required class of interstellar ethics and said, “Wulcans,” while arguing a point.

The instructor’s eyebrow rose so high up into his hairline that Chekov could not help but sweat a little. The other cadets shot him sidelong glances, until the instructor seemed to make the executive decision to brush it off and continue with his even-toned monologue about the slave trade and the sensitive issues surrounding biologically subservient Orions.

Chekov was still muttering “Vulcans, Vulcans,” to himself when he slipped out of class, his PADD in one hand and the other running through the crop of curls that kept threatening to spill over one eye.

"Don't sweat it," a friendly voice interrupted and he looked up to see a tall, Asian man in a cadet uniform. He stuck his hand out and offered it to Chekov. "But Commander Spock," he said, grinning and tilting his head towards the classroom door. "He's half- _Wulcan._ ”

Chekov groaned. "Am I never to hear the end of it?" But he took the other man’s hand anyway and shook it.

The man laughed. "Probably not, but I hear you're brilliant enough to get away with it. Hey, do you want to grab a bite somewhere?"

The man’s name was Hikaru Sulu and he was Japanese-American. "I'm training to be a helmsman," he told Chekov, around bites of chicken sandwich. "But I like other stuff too, plants, fencing," He waved his arm around, indicating the surrounding trees and hanging garden paraphernalia. "You?"

Chekov studied Sulu’s face, chewing slowly. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “I’m good at a lot of things.”

Sulu grinned, "Are you good at hand to hand?"

 

He wasn’t. Chekov was physically fit, did a lot of running and occasional gymnastics but the ability to duck at the right moment seemed to elude him and Sulu is not at all predictable.

Sulu wasn’t beefy or anything like it; he was lean and tanned and seemingly restless, bouncing on his heels and could dart all over the place, thanks to a background in European fencing. Chekov could break out of a hold or break a nose or trachea if he had to but Sulu was obviously experienced and wasn’t at all afraid to use it. He wasn’t a bully to Chekov’s relief and Sulu helped him to his feet whenever he was knocked down, offering him a towel or a bottle of water with a slightly rueful look.

Chekov was better at marksmanship than he was at hand-to-hand and Sulu whistled appreciatively when he presented scores in the 90th percentile. “It’s a lot more precise and predictable,” he told Sulu at the shooting range.

"Sure it is," Sulu replied, trying to sound grumpy.

After that, Chekov had to ask himself whether or not he had made a friend, a real one, not a passing acquaintance. Sulu _had_ friends, lots of other friends, other pilots. They were…jocks, Chekov assessed, using the American term. Sulu fit right in with them, even though Chekov knew he was more refined than he let on, that he didn’t jostle their shoulders or get into pissing matches or elbow his friends like they were children. He looked good in the Starfleet regulation coveralls of the flight staff and there was a picture of him in the yearbook database, wearing a pair of aviators and standing in front of a Peregrine-class ship with some of his colleagues. Chekov wondered if that was what Sulu wanted to fly.

 _That is a two-man fighter_ , Chekov thought, running a finger over the picture of the computer screen. Sulu would need a navigator to fly it properly. But he later abandoned the thought and returned to the transporter theory paper he was writing for Commander Spock.

 

Once in a while, very rarely, Chekov would get looks from some of his colleagues that varied in sentiment: jealousy, sometimes or something that meant they were clearly impressed by his intelligence or his youth. Most of the time many were happy to look out for him, not only to challenge or concur with his work but to invite him to socials or point him in the right direction. Chekov knew he was still more naïve than a lot of the people here but sometimes that was okay because when he scored flawlessly across the board, his professors beamed at him and awarded him with more clearance to more classified studies and harder theorems.

It was fun, Chekov thought to himself. It was fun when your brain was wanted, an asset and not a ticking time bomb and he was surrounded by people who knew how to help him put it to good use.

Chekov was adapting fast to the laid-back atmosphere of San Francisco, had learned to joke and make people laugh or let them laugh with him. His confidence had greatly improved and he had learned to roll “Wulcan” jokes with the best of them, even graduating to “nuclear wessels” when he assisted nuclear physics classes. Chekov was on top of stellar cartography and transporter theory and all the other extra sciences and electives they schedule him for. He liked it well and good but he had a problem with it too.

The problem was was that Chekov was good— incredible, in fact— and had no idea where to lay down his track. Chekov thought he would go into engineering one day but would change his mind and contemplate quantum physics, the next. There were definitely fields he would never consider or wasn’t interested in, like medicine or linguistics but there were more and more nights came when he was awake, staring at his ceiling and wondering where his ambitions led to.

Chekov’s counselor, he knew, despaired of him a little bit, making all kinds of suggestions that he carefully and logically picked apart. A career track was important and it would be a waste for someone of his value to be floating somewhere in the Science department, like intellectual flotsam. Chekov tried to assure her that he was thinking about it, that the only thing he knew for sure was that he would make a good science officer but that there were two many unknown variables for that to become a reality: too young to be on a bridge, to be an ensign, to be anything, really. He should probably stay grounded for another year or so and earn another advanced degree.

“Ah,” he complained to his counselor. “At this rate, we will run out of degrees for me to earn!”

"Talk to Commander Spock," she finally suggested, putting down her PADD.

"Commander Spock?" Chekov asked. Over time, the half-Vulcan commander had become something of a mentor, albeit a distant one and was someone Chekov admired and respected.

The counselor nodded. "Yes, he's not only a top alum and instructor here; he's also a top science officer, the top science officer. Many of the captains have been competing for him to come aboard their ship as a first officer. Perhaps you should speak to him."

The hesitation on Chekov’s face gave her pause. "Commander Spock’s Vulcan nature will not give you anything other than the most logical truth," she rationalized. “I can schedule a consultation with him for you,” she offered.

Whether or not he’d been pawned off to Spock in order to achieve results, rather than having to sit through more sessions of soul-searching about his career path, remained to be seen. But he decided to get it over with at the soonest possible moment. Contemplating this, Chekov headed to the mess to attempt dinner, joining Sulu and some of their mutual acquaintances at their table.

Sulu was strangely attentive, watching Chekov as he mechanically ate his stew, eyes staring fixedly at the same spot on the table.

"Something wrong?" Sulu asked, nudging him under the table with his foot.

"Just having to make some hard decisions," Chekov answered, looking up with an odd twist of his mouth.

Sulu studied him hard and then looked over at the others at their table. "Hey, we have the evening off and tomorrow too, right?" The others nodded, some of them already smiling a little, as if they knew what Sulu was suggesting.

Chekov wrinkled his forehead. "What is it?"

"You know, I keep forgetting how young you are, sometimes," Sulu grinned and got up to put away his tray. "You need to get out and have some fun. This is San Francisco," he said, as if that made any sense to Chekov.

"Up, get up." Sulu took Chekov’s elbow and levered him off his seat.

"Wait...wait, but— I have equations, papers!" Chekov protested but did nothing to stop Sulu, who was starting to look impatient.

"Do it on Sunday," Sulu insisted.

The “club” Sulu took him too wasn’t really a club. It was the rooftop of one of the residential high-rises that peppered the riverside. Sulu had bullied him into civilian clothing. Fashion was something Chekov didn’t care much for but he acquiesced and pulled on a pair of jeans he hardly used, a t-shirt and a sweater because it was bound to get a little chilly later. Sulu met him wearing jeans as well and a t-shirt that informed him that “Pilots Do It on the Fly,” the meaning of which was totally beyond him. An old bomber jacket completed that ensemble.

Next to Sulu Chekov thought he looked about twelve but it was too late to do anything about it and he couldn’t bring himself to care all that much, either.

There were a lot of people dancing on the rooftop and it was a big one—there were dozens of people there. Most of them were cadets, which made Chekov wonder how often these parties happened. Someone put some effort in décor so the lighting was more decent than he expected and there was no shortage of engineers at the Academy, so the sound was pretty good as well, even though the music that was currently playing was pretty awful. Nobody seemed to pay attention to it though, and mostly seemed happy just to be out of uniform, free to talk and flirt with each other.

There was what Chekov recognized to be a “karaoke” set-up in a corner, surrounded by seats and cushions, on which people were draped. It was a phenomenon, Chekov knew, that allowed people to sing along as the words to a song flashed across the viewer and it amused him that although the technology was maybe two centuries old, nothing is to be said about a human’s enthusiasm for drinking beverage alcohol and be reduced to crying out the words to a galactic-wide Top 40. Technological advances had made it so that the experience has evolved into a wrap-around hologram that could be programmed into stimulating an arena concert or any of the infinite number of available scenarios.

At the moment, there was a very drunk blond man writhing and putting on a show for an obviously delighted Orion girl with a shock of red curls to rival his and a beautiful dark-skinned woman whose expression flitted between amused and incredibly annoyed.

Sulu had disappeared into the crowd, snaking through it with ease, after sliding his credit card at the door, to cover for them both. Chekov watched as Sulu made his way to the far end of the rooftop where there was a line of coolers filled with possibly every kind of alcohol to be found in the city of San Francisco. He came back with a bottle in each hand and froze when he reached Chekov.

"Oh, shit," Sulu breathed and while Chekov couldn’t hear him, he could definitely understand Sulu’s sudden apprehension. His suspicion was confirmed when Sulu leaned in, mouth accidentally brushing Chekov’s ear.

"I forgot that you weren't legal drinking age," Sulu said. Chekov laughed when Sulu pulled back, an apologetic look on his face. He looked, Chekov decided, as if he didn’t want the beer to go to waste but didn’t want to look like a complete jerk either and drink them both.

“If I have one, will you tell?” Chekov said, eyes crinkling with his smile. He reached over and closed his hand over one of the bottles and pulled it free, lifting it to this mouth and taking a drink. It was pretty terrible but it was cold and felt good, running down his throat like relief. He downed half and wiped his mouth with his sleeve before reaching over to nudge Sulu into action.

"It'll get warm," he pointed out. Sulu nodded and took a sip of his own, oddly quiet and watching Chekov carefully through narrow eyes. They mutually decided to edge out of the general crowd and found a spot on the roof of a little shed as the party continued to spin all around them. Sulu intercepted a couple more beers from a guy who was carrying a bucket of them over his head and handed the other one to Chekov, this time without a speck of worry on his face.

The average beer in Moscow cost 160 rubles. The exchange rate from rubles to dollars is about 30 rubles. It was probably why Russians preferred vodka. Liquor was quicker and cheaper too, when the end game was simply to get drunk. To Chekov, the practice had always felt a little urgent.

Here, in America, where it felt like he had all the time in the world, the best thing about dollar beer night was that the beer was only a dollar. With a hundred kids here, that was a lot of beer and a lot of time that Chekov felt he could allow himself right now. There were other things too, that Chekov had never been a part of before: boxes of pizza and bowls of candy and a plastic bucket with “Jim Kirk Cab Fund” scrawled on one side. It was excessive and indulgent and somewhat overwhelming too, except that he wasn’t because he knew many of the people here and he was with Sulu, so there was no reason to be apprehensive.

Chekov kept the fact that he was used to vodka to himself because his parents let him have it now and then, to toast anniversaries and holidays, and that he and his comrade cadets passed it back and forth because it was a faster way to get warm in the cold dormitories of the conservatory. Chekov could hold his own and he felt satisfied just to be able to enjoy himself and be able to keep a hold of his dignity while he watched Sulu become talkier and more casual as the night wore on; goofier, as he fished a piece of paper from a pocket and brandished it.

Sulu deftly folded the paper into an airplane with more coordination that a man who has had more than six beers inside him should. He had to squeeze one eye shut to focus and take aim, licked a finger to “check the wind” and then tossed it, tense with anticipation. He groaned when it skidded off the rim of an empty beer bucket and then threw himself onto his back, on the roof of the shed. Chekov followed suit, absently looking for the warmth of the other man and tilted his head so he could absorb the heat of Sulu’s shoulder.

"Have you decided what you're on track for?" Sulu asked, suddenly.

"I'm supposed to speak to Commander Spock about it, perhaps on Monday," Chekov admitted.

"I've always wanted to fly," Sulu told him. "No question about it. Airplanes as a kid, space shuttles, fighters."

"And now?" Chekov asked, holding his breath for reasons he couldn’t figure out yet.

"Maybe...maybe something bigger," Sulu said, staring at the sky. "It's not as fast on sublight, certainly not as maneuverable as a fighter..," he trailed off. "But starships can go intergalactic and go into warp and…there is so much space out there. So much to see."

"As long as I can get on one of them," Chekov said, with finality. "As long as I can be out there among the stars."

There was something heavy and unsaid between them and it hung in the air for what felt like light years. And then Chekov felt Sulu shift around next to him and he turned his head to look, finding them nose to nose with the other man. Sulu stared at him, nearly cross-eyed with the effort and the distance.

"So, I," Sulu cleared his throat. "I am actually not that drunk but if this is completely offensive to you, you can blame it on that, for sure. Because. I. There is something I've wanted to do but. You're so young and I don't want to be creepy or forceful or well, creepy..."

Chekov tilted his head and pressed his lips to Sulu’s. He had no idea what he was doing but it seemed to be the right thing to do. It wasn’t anything complicated, just a press of mouths, a little more than a chaste peck on the lips but when he broke it off Sulu was staring at him, looking like he’d been hit by a phaser on stun setting.

"Oh, oh, um," Chekov stuttered, turning red. "I apologize, Sulu, I, well, I'm drunk, absolutely, if that isn't want you meant. I don't know what's gotten into me but--"

“Shut up, you are so not drunk, you vodka-swilling delinquent,” Sulu muttered and then slid closer to press his beer-flavored mouth to Chekov’s. The sound he made was dirty and delighted and completely what Chekov wanted. His tongue was hot and they didn’t touch, didn’t reach for the other one with anything else but their mouths, under the stars on the roof, with dozens of Starfleet cadets dancing around them. The delicious spark of pleasure that curled in Chekov’s stomach was something he recognized as smugness because he had gotten the jump this time, read the signals exactly right, even coupled with uncertainty.

Chekov deduced, while Sulu sucked at his bottom lip, that this was the large particle collider feeling that he had wanted all this time. He didn’t see in coming, not in America, certainly not with Sulu but it felt right. It felt _perfect._

 

For all their combined mental acuity and practiced time management training, their timing really _sucked._

On Monday, Sulu would be starting a month or so of piloting simulations that would take up most of his time and Chekov had his discussion with Commander Spock. After the party, they had stumbled back to the dorms early in the morning, too tired to do anything more than pass out in bed and sleeping most of the day. On Sunday, Sulu left to go see his family, probably the last time he could for a while and Chekov wanted to call his parents on the videophone but completely lost his nerve and wrote a letter instead.

After that, he took his equations out with him to one of the courtyards and alternately worked on them and stared out into space.

"Commander Spock?" Chekov stood at attention as the door slid open to accommodate him on a sunny yet seemingly grim Monday.

Spock sat at his desk, straight-backed and somewhat intimidating. He didn’t seem put out though, as if he'd been expecting Chekov and Chekov was gratified when he spied the surface of the organizer PADD on his desk and it said "0800h, Consultation: Chekov, P.A." He was on time.

"Cadet Chekov," Spock said, in his usual even tone. "Please speak freely."

Chekov relaxed. "Sir, I would like to ask for your advice on a particular matter. You are aware that I am young, nearly seventeen and am top of many of my classes." He hesitated a little but then remembered he only needed to be frank with a Vulcan. "I do not know what I should be on track for, although my ultimate goal is to be assigned to a starship. I will be enlisted; there is no question about that but I am afraid that I do not fully grasp my personal strengths. I come to you for an evaluation." He looked at Spock, hoping that he'd described what he needed as succinctly as possible.

"I had suspected as much," Spock said. He folded his hands on his desk and looked at Chekov right in the eye. "With my Vulcan heritage, I sometimes forget the fluctuations of the human condition. You are considered a prodigy, as was I, something we have in common."

"Sir, I don't mean to presume but there are certain _elements_ of...human condition that—"

"If you lack direction, Cadet Chekov, I would be more than willing to assist you; however, my methods are not easy," Spock's mouth twitched a little bit. His face was perfectly placid but his eyes seemed a little bright. "Some people would not consider them fair."

Chekov squeezed the arms of the chair he sat in and stared back at him. "When shall we start?"

 

The tests, like Spock, seemed harmless but ran deep. Spock was considered by many to be an unparalleled programmer and he observed as Chekov drained and reconfigured dilithium crystals, translated alien star maps, and in one strange instance, run for hours on a treadmill. Chekov suspected the Vulcan to be a little naughtier than people gave him credit for. He fixed engines, took up shifts in the transporter rooms, even did flight simulations, forcing him to overcome his nerves and the fact that they made him think of Sulu.

They were both a little too busy to see each other more than once a week and sometimes two went by with nothing more than a video communiqué that often revealed a battered and exhausted Sulu who looked happy to see him but would sometimes fall asleep in the middle of Chekov’s theories about particular Vulcans and who they might be involved with on the sly.

One time, Sulu sent him an email that simply said: _Got to take out a Peregrine fighter out of orbit today. It’s incredible._ In that simple statement, Chekov could imagine the thrill that would have run through Sulu’s body when he breached the atmosphere. He tried not to imagine it too keenly, the bliss on Sulu’s face and the confidence of pulling a fighter effortlessly into space, urging it faster. He didn’t want to pine or be a swooning Russian princess, like the ones in the book that he’d gotten on his fourteenth birthday, like the kind his mother sometimes told himself stories of but the thought of Sulu ejecting into an orbital space dive was terrifying.

Chekov came in the next day, expecting more crazy equations when Spock looked up and said, “You are scheduled for orbital space dive simulations.” And Chekov found himself plummeting to the Earth and thinking to himself about how much he wanted to be going the other way, up into the sky and not down and cursing certain Vulcans for their dark senses of humor.

The tests eased up, eventually, and little by little, things began to make more sense. The atmosphere at Starfleet Command had changed a bit too, Chekov observed, somewhat tense. Perhaps it was some Klingon resistance, he thought, as he went about his day, though ever observant. There were always rumors of their galactic comrades or enemies; he only knew for sure that the Federation was increasing patrols along neutral space, sending more people out to serve alongside Federation allies. People were strengthening alliances and choosing sides. Chekov knew a little about diplomacy but he couldn’t bring himself to care about the actual politics; he only knew that when the time came, he would use everything in his knowledge and power to defend what was his.

Chekov thought that perhaps he should be wearing red, be deeply involved in dilithium engineering and do equations for increasing the efficiency of the hyperdrive or something. But then Commander Spock sat him in the command chair of a simulation room and threw scenario after scenario at him and it suddenly became clear to him that he didn’t belong down in the engine room.

"You are grooming me for tactical, Commander?" Chekov demanded, as he emerged from the room, feeling a little wring out.

Spock just looked at him, eyes even. "Your telemetry is near flawless, Cadet Chekov. I believe you will be an asset on the bridge of a starship." He revealed nothing more but looked a little taken aback when Chekov made a move as if to hug him before catching himself and stiffening to attention.

"Thank you, Commander Spock," Chekov said, accent thickening with pride.

Spock twitched an eyebrow at him. “Do not forget you are scheduled for the Kobayashi Maru in due time.” Spock strode purposefully away.

Chekov knew that even though he was considered a genius at his age, Federation rules would not allow him a rank higher than ensign. He has a sneaking suspicion that Spock was using him as one of his cards, to put together the best of the best together to be part of a starship crew under his command. Chekov didn’t want to presume but he wondered, in turn, which captain Commander Spock had sworn his commission to. Nevertheless, an ensign on the bridge crew was a bit unusual but not completely unheard of. He speculated, however, that this put him not in science blue but in command gold and the thought of being in command was more terrifying than any of the now dozens of orbital space dives he’d been pushed to endure.

And then out of the blue, Chekov was called to the office of Admiral Barnett and informed that he was assigned to the _Enterprise_ , a brand new Constitution-class starship under the command of Captain Pike and the recommendation of Commander Spock. Chekov listened intently, thanked the Admiral and showed the proper respect, stepped out into the hallway and broke into a cold sweat.

The first thought that came to his mind was that it might be considered unfair for many reasons: because he was too young, too green, had never seen battle and so many people were going to whisper about him, how Chekov the prodigy, swung favor to himself and got the _Enterprise_. But he absolutely felt like he deserved it.

For better or worse, Chekov thought, he would keep the information to himself for now.

Sulu found him in the mess, prodding at a tablet computer and eating a sandwich. He slid across the table from Chekov and nudged his feet under the table, smiling widely.

"What's funny?" Chekov asked, sparing Sulu a look, eyes darting between his face, his sandwich and his computer. It wasn’t an off-putting look, just distracted, and if Sulu wasn’t mistaken, somewhat fond, as well.

"Nothing," Sulu tapped the table. "Except you know, something."

Chekov frowned at him. "That’s illogical," he muttered and Sulu burst out laughing.

"Been hanging out a lot with Commander Spock?"

Chekov looked startled but then realized what he had said and laughed as well. “No, really, I have some work to catch up with but what is it?” He pushed away the computer and diverted his attention to his sandwich and Sulu.

Whatever Spock was making him do, Sulu observed, had changed Chekov a little bit. His hands glided more surely over the screen of the computer and he seemed to move with more efficiency. His shoulders were squared straighter and he even chewed his sandwich with intent, finishing one triangle and then the other in four bites each. When Chekov smiled, it reached his eyes in one electric glide and not the wavery hesitation or tentativeness or sarcasm of before. It made Sulu’s stomach swoop a little, like performing a roll in the Peregrine.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little origami crane and settled it on top of Chekov’s tablet computer. Chekov looked at it curiously and then up at Sulu, questioning.

"Happy Birthday," Sulu said, casually and then laughed when it dawned on Chekov who put down his stylus and picked up the crane, looking at it carefully.

"Oh," Chekov said, a flush climbing his cheeks. "I'm seventeen today."

Sulu swallowed. He kept forgetting how young Chekov was sometimes. Being a military peacekeeper sometimes made Sulu, who was twenty-one, feel old and twenty-one was still a long way away from seventeen.

“Thank you,” Chekov said and looked down at the table, toying with the paper crane. He peered up at Sulu though his reddish brown eyelashes, with his big blue eyes and Sulu swallowed again.

"Listen, I--" Sulu started.

"Come with me?" Chekov asked, at the same time.

"Where--"

“Just someplace," Chekov said and, closed a fist around the paper crane before standing up, quickly removing his tray, tucking the tablet under his arm and striding off. Sulu almost had to jog to keep up but he held himself together until they reached student dorms and Chekov’s rooms, and then everything slowed down for a second before it exploded into a flurry of motion.

Chekov punched at the buttons of the door pad and then turned to Sulu.

"It's locked," he said, as if Sulu had been too stupid to pick that much up. Chekov threw himself at Sulu and kissed him on the mouth, muttering something in Russian and tugging at Sulu's clothes. Sulu groaned and dug his fingers into Chekov's hair and sucked at his collarbone, at his chest and then pushed him down onto the bed and yanked his pants down over his hips and mouthed at his cock, straining in his underwear. Chekov panted and flung his arms over his face as if embarrassed but he rutted into Sulu's hand and then stuffed a fist into his mouth to keep from crying out.

Sulu went down on him and sucked carefully, trying to drag it out for Chekov but Chekov jerked up and came into his mouth. Sulu swallowed what he could, swiped what trickled out the corner of his mouth with the edge of the bedsheet and then Chekov tugged him up and kissed him, before turning over in Sulu's arms and reaching out for a strip of condoms and practically tossing it at Sulu's face. He laughed a little when Sulu spluttered and then stretched out on the bed, looking at Sulu with one eye open, loose and expectantly.

"Man, you are pushy," Sulu murmured fondly and ripped open a pack with his teeth, sliding it on himself. "Are you sure?"

"Da," Chekov murmured back, lips pursing over his words. He petted Sulu's arm and wrapped his long fingers around the back of Sulu’s neck and shifted a little to give Sulu room to reach down, drag a finger through what's left of the slick mess and slide a finger into Chekov. He added another finger and then another, until he is three deep inside Chekov.

The Russian writhed and grasped the bedsheet, begging in Russian. It sounded strange to Sulu but also beautiful and he mouthed shushing noises into Chekov's shoulders and the side of his neck when he slid in, smooth as you please and started with an easy cant, just a simple rocking of hips and he cursed Chekov's teenaged virility when he reached around them both and felt that he was hard again.

Chekov bent one long arm against the bed, like a push-up and arched up when Sulu rocked down and shuddered, coming into him and swearing into Chekov's sweaty hair. He tugged at Chekov's cock while he was still inside him, softening but working his hips until a damp spot is spreading beneath them and they collapsed in a sweaty tangle on the too narrow dorm bed.

"Oh god," Sulu said, after he recovered his voice.

"Not god," Chekov said, sounding mischievous. "Just Pavel."


	4. Allow Yourself Enough Time

If their timing was bad before, soon there would be no time at all.

The Enterprise lifted off from the shipyard in Iowa and rose into orbit to dock at Starbase One. The barest crew was required for that operation but for Chekov, it meant that many of his commanding officers were absent including, of course, Commander Spock.

Sulu was nowhere to be found, either, headed into evaluation and assignment, as were all the pilots. The seniors were put through the motions of final examinations and submitting of theses so many of them were busy taking over classes for which they served as academic aides and finalizing their own projects. There was a commotion over a Kobayashi Maru test, Chekov had heard and a trial involving the Commander Spock and a Cadet James T. Kirk who he had vaguely heard of before would take place in a few weeks. But Chekov had other things to think about. He had gone through the test himself and failed spectacularly and miserably, although the Commander had seemed not unpleased with his defense. Chekov reminded himself to one day hunt down this Kirk person and pick at his brain.

In the meantime, Chekov was given his commission and his new gold uniform, his ensign rank and a one way trip to the bridge of the Enterprise for tests and more tests and to help make sure the ship was in peak performing condition. They handed it to him with perfect nonchalance and Chekov accepted it as such, even though his insides were quaking with worry and he was under orders to be discreet.

It hadn't hit him until Chekov was actually on the ship, armed with tricorders and all kinds of equipment and lists of inventory. As the one in charge of tactical, it was imperative that he knew where everything was and how everything worked, so that when the situation called for it, he could arm everything to their advantage and not grasp at air. He had engines to monitor and energy levels to keep an eye on and warp drives to monitor and a thousand other details. Spock appeared on occasion, to concur with his results but he often left as soon as he came and there was no sign of the captain, who was perhaps wrapping things up on Earth.

Chekov ran his hands over the navigation system at the helm and tried to keep his head in the job, tweaking things for maximum efficiency but he later abandoned it in favor of staring out of the window of their bridge, into the surreal darkness of space. He could see Earth, looming large and blue and green under him.

He had called his parents before he left, soothed his mother and assured his father that he would take care of himself. It was years since he had seen them and he was dismayed to see them looking a little old. He tapped out a quick message to them and sent it through secure channels, to tell them that he’d made it onto an actual starship and he was writing to them from space. It was not really allowed but he knew that a lot of the staff was doing the same, not about to allow a chance to share their feelings to those they would leave behind. They were near enough to Earth that all channels are still secure. Once they headed into space, sending messages would be a little harder; even the shortest message could take weeks to transmit.

Chekov ended his message with “I love you” and sent it. He left out all the parts about Sulu and imminent death and other things he didn’t want them to know or worry about, like Andorian shingles and Klingon warbirds, and turned his attention back to the ship. Chekov was thinking about whether or not he should send a message to Sulu about his commission or ask about his but he was interrupted by an even voice.

"Ensign Chekov," Chekov turned to look up at Commander-- _First Officer_ Spock-- resplendent in blue, the double stripe on his cuffs.

"Sir," he acknowledged and then grinned up at him, just because he could. Spock awarded him nothing more than raised eyebrow.

"Status?"

"Helm at the ready, all bridge stations functioning at maximum efficiency."

The Enterprise NCC-1707 had been commissioned for a five year expedition. The log stated that Captain Christopher Pike would be in command but Chekov had yet to catch a glimpse of him.

 

Chekov was down in engineering, checking communication function when the memo was sent.

His eyes flew over the screen and he transferred it to his handheld immediately, before running down the hall and throwing himself into a lift for the bridge. He scanned the report while he walked, skirting crew members and emerging into a sea of cadets, all in red, looking as ready as they could possibly be. They flitted in and out of the locker rooms and the armories and emerged in gold, red or blue, running to their stations.

In one terrifying instant, Chekov realized that, at seventeen, his first starship commission was going headfirst into battle. All of them were, he thought, as he watched cadets stream in and out of shuttle bays and into lifts, moving quickly and efficiently. The muted wail of an alarm hummed, lending a heightened sense of emergency to the situation.

Chekov saw Spock out of the corner of one eye, striding down the hall in his blue instructor uniform and then a second later, headed to the bridge. The cadets-— ensigns now, some lieutenants—- worked, filling chairs, testing equipment and he heard his name over the communicator.

“Ensign Chekov, to the bridge.”

Immediately, he snapped into action. He was ready for this, had waited all his short life for it and there was a distinct possibility that it might be shorter still. He wasn’t stupid enough to assume that a simple rescue and evac mission would result in impending doom—there was just something about Vulcans in distress that made it feel more urgent and dangerous.

All around him the Enterprise was waking up, lights flashing and surfaces humming with energy. The din followed him all the way to the bridge and a moment before he entered, Chekov saw him.

Captain Christopher Pike handed off a clipboard to an officer and then caught his eye. He looked, bemused, at Chekov, although a spark of recognition flitted across his face. For a second, Chekov wanted to bolt across the hall and hug him, shake his hand, anything to thank him for picking him, for recognizing his potential all those years ago.

There was no time for that, however; Vulcan had sent a distress call and the Enterprise was going to answer it.

 

Chekov charged onto the bridge and headed to his seat. There was no time to be nervous, no time to freak out but then he twisted in his chair and Sulu was sitting at the helm, wearing gold just as he was, the single stripe on his cuffs that signified his rank as lieutenant.

For a second, they just stared at each other. Sulu opened his mouth to say something but then an order chirped on the comm and it was back to work. Chekov’s hands flew over the screens, laying in the course, lining up all auxiliary routes and sliding them over the info deck so Sulu could punch in the codes and made sure the engine rooms received the data and confirmed back.

 

They worked in tandem, muttering affirmations and confirming equations back and forth, as easily as if they were bantering about sports or music or what have you. Chekov could feel his face flush because Hikaru was here next to him, more than he had dared hope for. He wanted to ask, “Why aren’t you flying fighters?” or “where’s Mister McKenna?” but, of course, there was no time for any of that. It didn’t matter though, because Chekov trusted Sulu without question.

"Engineering reports ready to launch," Spock said and the entire bridge crew launched into action. There was no real way to train together to work in sync but the science of the Enterprise was flawless. It was like an orchestra, working together to play a piece with all the notes in place, just waiting for the right time to come in.

Pike settled in the command chair. "All decks, this Captain Pike, be ready for immediate departure." He leaned back, eyes focused, and nodded to Sulu.

The Enterprise separated from the Space Dock and Sulu set the course. Through the bridge window, the crew turned to watch the other ships disappear into warp, one by one.

"Maximum warp," Pike ordered. "Punch it."

 

Forgetting to disengage external dampeners was Sulu’s first fumble. A rookie mistake, Chekov thought, but forgave him because the situation was overwhelming enough as it was. He could have pointed out the mistake, probably should have, but Spock was always a split second faster than everyone else and saved him the disdainful look Sulu would have shot him right after. _He was the auxiliary pilot_ , Chekov thought as Sulu recalibrated the helm, _and that meant that he had managed to get himself onto the Enterprise, had intended to, to begin with_.

Why Sulu wasn’t the primary pilot to begin with still eluded Chekov but it didn’t matter now because, in the end, it was Sulu at the helm and not McKenna with his lungworm. He tried not to smile when Pike called for maximum warp again, sounding amused.

"Hey, Russian whiz kid," Pike's voice snapped him back to attention. "What's your name again? Chepov? Chirpov?"

Chekov swallowed and looked at him. The recognition is definitely there. He'd seen Pike over the years in mission reports but standing in front of him, wearing command gold, just like him, hair more gray than all those years before, he was both an intimidating and reassuring figure.

Chekov cleared his throat. "Ensign Chekov. Pavel Andreivich Chekov, sir."

"Fine, Chekov, Pavel Andreivich, begin shipwide transmission."

“Yes, Captain, repitur.”

His first official order from the Captain was his first blunder too. Chekov agonized as he forced out the V-sound. From the corner of his eye, he spied Sulu, stifling his laughter as he settled the ship comfortably into maximum warp. Chekov refused to be offended, just schooled his face and continued the transmission, stumbling over “Vulcan” and “activity” and “evacuation” but speaking carefully and with intent. He logged off with a “thank you for your time,” and spun in his chair to shoot Sulu a smug look, before returning his attention to his station.

The peace was interrupted fast when a man who was most definitely James T. Kirk burst onto the bridge and was followed by a lot of shouting and furious movement. In an instant, a decision seemed to have been made and a newly minted Lieutenant Uhura who could speak several Romulan dialects, apparently, relieved the officer who had initially been seated at communications and the ship shuddered as Sulu brought them out of warp.

The ship emerged into a sea of debris and there was a second of horror as they all stared in dismay. Chekov tried to remain calm and collected as he concentrated on helping Sulu maneuver the ship in and out through massive hunks of torn starships. Chekov couldn’t shake the feeling that many of his classmates and friends were dead but right now he had to concentrate, to stay calm. Sulu was operating with full concentration, flying the ship as it were a two-person fighter and not a massive carrier, with a crew of nearly a thousand. He didn’t break into a sweat and managed to pull the ship into the clear, glancing at Chekov with a grim, satisfied look.

 

The Romulan who hailed them loomed on the screen and Chekov had to stare. He had read reports of hostile alien life forms but the man was different; he had dark look in his eyes, crazy and intense. An unsatisfied, angry gleam, patient and waiting for one of them slip up. Chekov realized that the Romulan was challenging the ship and demanding their captain.

In an instant, Pike rose from his chair and started delivering orders. Spock challenged the decision and Kirk protested it but the only thing that Chekov registered was the fact that Sulu was volunteering for a potential suicide mission and refusing to meet his eye.

When the operations on a ship had been perfectly ordered—a well-oiled machine, or, like a Mobius strip, constantly in motion but always emerging on the same side-- Chekov had absolutely no right to protest. He did what he could, studying the damage on particular decks, assuming orders for others and reassigning stations when it suddenly clicked into place.

McCoy brought Kirk who called on Uhura who helped convince Spock who challenged Nero who was demanding Pike.

Pike, who has pulled Sulu into combat duty and left the conn to Chekov.

It was so logical and well-ordered that Chekov could not find fault with it, just calmly and without protesting sent updates to all the crew and took the conn that had been handed to him.

Seventeen years old and for a grueling ten or so minutes was in charge of an entire starship.

Then Spock came back to retake the conn, update him and the crew and Chekov could turn all his nervous energy towards keeping the ship steady in orbit and watch as Kirk, Sulu and Chief Engineer Olsen turned into multicolored spots on the screen in front of him.

When Kirk yelled into the comm and transporters were reengaged, Chekov did the math as fast as he possibly could and turned to Spock. He was a theoretical physicist which meant he could very probably guess what was about to happen. Spock was preoccupied with being acting captain, could have very well guessed for himself, given the Vulcan’s incredible ability to parse data. But he trusted Chekov to give him the most accurate outcome and Chekov hesitated for a microsecond before he turned and told Spock that Vulcan has minutes before it disappeared into an artificial black hole.

It was selfish but in Chekov’s head it meant that if they didn’t haul himself out of that situation immediately, Sulu and Kirk would have _minutes_ to live. Given their current situation, the unlikeliest and yet most desirable of solutions would be to beam everyone right back to the ship immediately.

When Spock bolted off the bridge with Uhura and suddenly and abruptly again left the conn to Chekov, he simply had half a mind to beam everyone back. He couldn’t though, because he had to somehow maintain orbit, send reports, and record everything that was happening. He couldn’t come up with any plausible deniability for disobeying orders. Court-martialed at seventeen, wouldn’t that be wonderful? Thankfully, a pilot had come to take Sulu’s seat and Chekov was relieved at the assurance that the helm would not be abandoned. It left him time to worry about other things.

It had been twice within the hour that he had been given the conn and he studied the readings, feeling his heart sink just as the yellow dot started to plummet toward the planet when the solution hit him.

“Beam us out!” Kirk kept screaming into the communicator. Sulu, Chekov knew, would be trying hard to slow their descent. He was a pilot, after all, and would do everything he could to aim for the ground and miss.

Chekov shouted for someone to take the conn and ran to the transporter room. He could do this, he had theorized something like this in simulations before, based on some previously blackmarked proofs by someone name M. Scott or other. But necessity and adrenaline were pushing him far and he was doing the math in his head as he ran. He threw himself on top of the manual control and he couldn’t help but exclaim in relief when Kirk and Sulu slammed onto the transporter pad. He was still riding high on adrenaline when Spock beamed down and the pressure stayed on.

In the blink of an eye, Chekov failed to lock onto one of them and realized when they reappeared on the transporter pad that it was the life sign that mattered most to Spock. His mother. He had only managed seven life signatures, not eight. The odds had been undesirable but no one could have foreseen this particular outcome. While Chekov had been able to come to terms with the inevitable destruction of Vulcan, he didn’t have the opportunity to come to terms with something like this.

“Transport complete,” he muttered in an agonized voice. Behind him, Kirk and Sulu shifted around, probably torn between returning to duty and extending condolence.

There was no time to berate himself. Chekov had to concentrate and continue performing admirably because he knew that was what Spock expected of him. But in a matter of hours, he had failed two captains: Pike lost and Spock on the verge of emotional compromise. People around him assumed the Commander was Vulcan through and through but none of them had seen the look on his face when he lost his mother.

When _Chekov_ lost Spock’s mother.

He dug his fingernails into his knee and resolved not to make another mistake again.

 

The first time Chekov laid eyes on James T. Kirk, it had been at that party, years ago. Kirk was definitely the sort of man whose reputation preceded him.

The first time Chekov was really able to take a good look at him, it was on the bridge of the Enterprise, striding around the bridge, arguing with everyone's suggestions. Chekov tried to ease things, he was a theoretician, after all, and could shoot down the most illogical solutions. He tried not to scoff at the idea of time travel but Spock's face seemed sold on the idea and to be honest, one could hardly discount even the speculations of the Vulcan, who would surely have a logical explanation for it.

"An alternate reality," Uhura said and Spock confirmed that.

“Precisely. There may be a thousand others, a million, or only this one,” the Vulcan ventured to explain. “Certainly, Nero is acting as though this is the only one that matters. Whatever lives we might have lived if he had not appeared here to alter the time continuum of this reality have now been permanently altered. Our destinies, whatever they were, have changed.”

Chekov suddenly missed his parents. He looked at Sulu and they stared at each other, knowing what the other was thinking. In fact, Chekov’s thoughts whirled around his head as if caught in a storm. So many possibilities, so many scenarios he had trained for and here they were stuck faced with the one none of them could have seen coming.

 _An alternate reality,_ Chekov thought, _implied that a parallel dimension existed, that there was another version of his life, his person._ Would that include his parents? Would he have siblings? Was he in Starfleet? Was he a genius?

He looked at Sulu. Would he have Hikaru?

In another reality, would he have been sharper, faster, bigger, less likely to lose a captain to hostile Romulans or a mother his acting Captain obviously cherished?

“Even if we managed to stop this Nero,” Chekov cut in, unable to contain himself. “What’s to prevent him from reentering his time portal, however he achieves that, and simply going back in time a little further to stop us all over again? For that matter, if his objective is the destruction of the Federation, why not go back even earlier when our defensive technology was even more primitive?” But for all intents and purposes, Chekov knew he might as well have been asking a rhetorical question, that they were, in fact, grasping at straws here.

Kirk remained unconvinced the entire time and Chekov really wanted to subscribe to his point of view. Kirk didn’t care about whoever he was in another life. He was only focused on here and now and he seemed absolutely fearless, arguing with Spock and looking increasingly frustrated with the situation at hand. The bridge watched with some fascination as he made point after point, some of which completely devoid of common sense.

Chekov remembered the Kobayashi Maru and had heard of the trial. He had to give the man credit because he’d never seen anyone rub Spock the wrong way _on purpose_. He watched, in a sort of daze, when Spock ordered security on Kirk and Kirk fought back before taking the full brunt of a nerve pinch to the neck.

“Set the transport for Delta Vega,” Spock told him simply and Chekov followed the order. Delta Vega was cruel at its current planetary cycle, enveloped in a full winter. Chekov hoped that they’d put a full provision on the transport that was now currently hurtling towards Delta Vega, carrying James T. Kirk.

He thought about this while they traveled back to the Lorentzian system, feeling sluggish over the controls and pointedly ignoring Sulu's gaze as it moved over the back of his neck, the side of his face. Chekov kind of wanted to go back to his quarters with him and wrap his body around his and kiss him all over and tell Hikaru that it didn't matter if they had different lives in another reality but that he was real at that very moment. They were real and that was all that mattered.

On the other hand, he knew the entire bridge was probably thinking the same thing, about their families and homeworlds. And then there was the acting captain Spock, who seemed unmoved as ever but who everyone wanted to offer some kind of comfort, though none of them had any real idea how.

It would be hours until they could rendezvous with the rest of the fleet. In the meantime, Chekov should keep track of repairs going on all over the ship, anything to keep his mind preoccupied, too exhausted to do anything but function on auto-pilot but too wired to sleep.

Suddenly, the screen chirped at him and he stared at it in disbelief as two life signs popped on the screen in mid-warp. He hesitated—- again—- before he reported to Spock.

It was Kirk and another man, soaked to the bone. It looked like they were running through the turbine room. Chekov watched as they were intercepted and brought to the bridge.

The man with Kirk was M. Scott, the same M. Scott of the transwarp beaming theories. Suddenly, Chekov itched to ask for the equation that allowed such accurate beaming because if he knew it, he wouldn’t lose any more captains or mothers or anyone else. He wanted that foolproof algorithm for pinpointing life signs with clarity and beaming them on board. There might be time later but at the moment, all eyes were on Kirk and Spock.

"What is it about you, Spock? Your planet was just destroyed, your whole civilization wiped out. Your mother murdered and you’re not even upset?" Kirk said to the Vulcan.

Chekov imagined a shock run through the bridge while his mind raced ahead, listening to how Kirk was provoking the Vulcan. Kirk was brave—- reckless but brave—- and willing to shoulder the responsibility without question, including the brunt of what meant Spock was giving in to his human impulses.

And when Spock did, it was almost beautiful; the wave of carefully conditioned fury was as intense as the heat of the sun. The purity of the emotion pulled people out of their seat, as Spock pummeled Kirk on the bridge of the Enterprise. The Vulcan didn’t cry but the emotions were shocking: he looked heartbroken and furious and lost. He wasn’t, however, without control. Chekov watched as Ambassador Sarek simply called his name and Spock folded, composing himself as quickly as he had broken loose.

It was because of Kirk that Spock was forced to take responsibility for his emotions, for things that mattered; instead of hiding behind a mountain of responsibility, to run from smaller, precious things that Spock normally thought irrelevant or unsightly-- things that made people human. Kirk was his perfect opposing force, all human emotion completely naked on his face and Chekov didn’t know it yet but at that moment, he trusted Kirk completely.

Chekov watched as Spock left the bridge and recognized something in the line of Spock’s shoulders, something that felt like he once did, five or so years ago. It was that same loneliness, that feeling of disconnect, the helplessness of not knowing where to turn to next even then all the most logical and reasonable answers were spread before you like cards.

There was work to do, however, and Chekov would do what he could. He quickly acknowledged Kirk—Captain Kirk, now—and forwarded the Science station controls to the forward helm in Spock’s wake, resolving to make up for everything that had gone wrong today.

Chekov thought of where he was in space. He thought of where he was on the Enterprise. He thought of all the possible outcomes in which Kirk, Spock, Uhura, McCoy, Scott, Sulu and himself have been brought together, an outcome that was, according to his calculations, well beyond mere coincidence.

He thought of Earth and his parents and of Irina.

_Pasha, Be humble for you are made of earth. Be noble for you are made of stars._

Chekov went to work.

”Aye, that might work,” Scott said, appearing on the bridge, after Chekov finished presenting his plan to Kirk. The engineer looked convinced even though Kirk seemed to be weighing the plan. Chekov instantly recognized the engineer to be a man who enjoyed smashing improbability to pieces. Chekov sighed. If the people who he would be working with spun plans that at first seemed to resemble video games, then it was up to him to engineer the plausible science behind it.

“Wait a minute, kid, how old are you?” Doctor McCoy asked.

“Seventeen, sir,” Chekov replied, without hesitation, even allowing a little smugness. He felt completely over having to explain his age to anyone; the fact of the matter was, he was brilliant, he was Chief Tactical Officer and he was going to save all their lives. He had already outlined all the cons of their situation, after Sulu had earlier confirmed the Narada’s course.

“Oh…oh, good, he’s seventeen,” McCoy said, glaring at Jim, who raised his eyebrows at his friend as if to say, “Do you have a better idea?”

“Doctor,” a voice interrupted. “Mister Chekov is correct. I can confirm his telemetry.”

Chekov met Sulu’s eyes over McCoy’s shoulder and was slightly gratified to see a hint of pride in the helmsman’s eyes before he turned his attention to the Vulcan.

“If Mister Sulu is able to maneuver us into position, I can beam aboard his ship, steal back the black hole device and, if possible, locate Captain Pike.”

Chekov took a step back and let the senior officers duke it out a little. He could already see how it would play out, he thought, as he punched out the numbers to set the course for Saturn. Commander Spock’s plan was nothing like any plan he had ever seen the Vulcan come up with, in all the simulations or scenarios that they had tested together.

This plan sounded like something Kirk would come up with. When Kirk insisted he would go with Spock, nobody was surprised.

 

Watching the Romulan drill go down was one of the scariest things Chekov had ever seen in his life, especially when the transporter controls and communications went down with it.

Sulu slammed his hands on the controls.

"Kirk and Spock are on their own now," he announced but his eyes, when they turned to meet Chekov's, were fierce and determined and Chekov felt better, wanting those eyes on him all the time, pushing him to do better, knowing he would not be alone.

They could only guess what was happening on the giant Romulan ship after Scotty beamed the two men onto it. They could only sit and watch, as the Enterprise orbited Titan. It was a giant relief when the little white ship burst out of the Narada. There was no time to assess the origin of the little ship but it shot down the drill and restored the transporter, which was all that mattered to Chekov.

“Let me handle it this time, lad,” a cheerful voice flooded through the comm. “Time to bring them home.”

Perhaps, another day or in another reality, Chekov would have another chance to restore his mistakes but the best possible man to beam them back up was sitting there he should be. Chekov concentrated on the helm instead and his hands flew as he pulled up all photon beams, all their missiles and then Sulu slammed down hard on the gas and the Enterprise shot out of Titan's red mist like a bat out of hell. Chekov shouted the order and they fired everything they had at the Narada.

The bridge was hailed from the transporter room, telling them that Captain Pike had been retrieved, in critical shape but safe. Spock and Kirk burst onto the bridge and Chekov heaved a sigh of relief. "Captain, the enemy ship is losing power." He tried not to smile but was unable to help it.

It was far from over, the blackhole still there to contend with. Chekov put the ship into maximum warm and watched the hull start to crack. Sulu gentled the ship into the most harrowing display of defensive piloting he’d ever seen.

Uhura talked down all decks, telling them to hang on, not to panic, to calmly leave and seal off all compromised areas. Her voice was calm, her demeanor unruffled and she repeated the order again and again in many languages, so that everyone would not feel alone.

McCoy was down in the sick bay while the ship shuddered, his doctor's hands steady as he protected his patients. It was no secret that Bones hated space but he would work to stay alive as long as he could, just so he could die on the planet he was running from.

Spock was at his station, rerouting power and shutting down irrelevant systems, anything to give them more juice, more life support, because he had a species to save and a home to return to.

Scotty ran through the ship's belly, scrambling to challenge any and all laws of physics while swearing and ignoring the sting of his skin when he touched the engines’ heated surfaces. He'd followed the development of the Enterprise, had admired and lusted after every single nut and bolt and he'd be damned if he lost her now.

Kirk was yelling at Scotty through the communicator and throwing suggestions back and forth. Some were ridiculous, some were actually admirably smart given the stress of the situation they were in but mostly his eyes burned with hope and a refusal to go down without a fight because his ship had floated into a debris that consisted of all his friends and lovers and he wasn't going to let anyone get away with any of it.

The core burst free and the ship shuddered out of the gravitational pull of the Narada blackhole. No one let out a breath until they were safely out of reach and Sulu could fiddle with the ship's thrusters and try to decelerate at a rate that would prevent whiplash.

There was a pause and then the bridge erupted in relief and congratulations. Kirk slumped in the command chair and Sulu finally looked at Chekov and smiled at him.

"Right, so," Kirk finally said. "You know what? I'm going to check on Captain Pike and then I'm going to take a nap."


	5. Measure It Against Reality

There was so much work to be accomplished. Help came immediately, to deal with the most pressing repairs. With so many ships lost to the Romulan attack, the Enterprise had become the flagship of the Federation and Kirk the unspoken, unexpected hero of the day. They’d lost a good number of colleagues and had to send out memos to all their families. It was the captain’s job but Kirk seemed determined to do it, banishing the crew and ordering them to get some R and R.

Chekov snuck a peek at him while he sat in Pike’s office, rubbing his eyes and scanning the lists of all the people they’d lost, not just on the destroyed decks of the Enterprise but the hundreds of others who warped into the trap. He offered to help but retreated when Kirk lifted an eyebrow at him and shooed him away.

"Get some sleep, whiz kid. You did well," Kirk said, grinning at him.

 

By some mutual silent agreement, most of the bridge crew stuck around on Starbase One for as long as they could, volunteering to be the last to be shuttled back to Earth. At first, Chekov thought it was because they felt they were who carried the most responsibility on the ship but it was most likely because they wanted to keep an eye on her and on the captains and each other.

Sulu met him at his temporary quarters, showered and dressed in a fresh uniform, sans the gold shirt. He looked exhausted but happy to see Chekov and the door hardly had time to slide shut when Chekov hurried over to him and buried his face in his neck.

"Hey...hey," Sulu soothed and ran his fingers through the tangle of curly hair on Chekov’s head.

"I thought I wouldn't get to you in time, back there," Chekov muttered into Sulu's shoulder. "On Vulcan. Although, really, Hikaru, volunteering for that suicide mission," Chekov narrowed his eyes. “If you do that again, I will end you myself.”

They stood there for a while, silently, until Sulu gently extracted Chekov and held him at arm's length, looking at him. "Aw, Pavel, you really do care," he grinned. "So, the Enterprise, huh?"

“What were the odds?” Chekov managed, the words getting a little choked in his throat. Sulu frowned in concern and dug his fingers into Chekov’s hair.

“Pavel,” he said, low and soothing, rubbing circles into Chekov’s head until the younger man slumped onto his chest. “Pavel, what’s wrong?”

“On the bridge,” Chekov still struggling around the concept. “The commander suggested an alternate reality.” He pulled away to look at Sulu’s face, watching as the man made the connection and realization dawned on his face.

“Pavel,” Sulu said, firmly and then bent to press his lips against Chekov, smelling like toothpaste and tea. “Even if that were so, I really wouldn’t want to change a thing.”

“You could have been flying fighters or…or...,” Chekov tried again to argue but lost to the feel of Sulu’s warm hands, sliding under his shirt.

“Yeah and you could have been left behind on Earth for being too young or some bullshit like that. But don’t you understand, Pavel, there’s a reason why it’s this crew that the Enterprise picked? I’m going to send McKenna a bottle of wine to thank him for getting lungworm.” Sulu mouthed the words into the side of Chekov’s neck. “Don’t even pretend you aren’t excited about the prospect of exploring alternate realities. I know that brain of yours can’t help it.”

“Besides, I can’t imagine flying the ship with anyone else at my side, navigating for me,” Sulu told Chekov before walking him over the bunk and pushing him down onto it.

 

The Enterprise was to be lowered back to the shipyard for repairs that would take a month or two to complete. In that time, the entire crew had been given some leave but would report back for duty to finalize their commission on the Enterprise. Anyone who was on the bridge during the events concerning the Narada knew exactly how things had played out beyond the tactical report and the number of surprising revelations seemed to rival those of a church confessional. For each case presented to the board of admirals, there seemed to be a completely contrary punishment.

Not surprisingly, it all boiled down to Kirk.

Dr. Leonard H. McCoy admitted that he had brought Kirk on board, bending the rules on impulse in a way that he had never done before. He was awarded the position of Chief Medical Officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise.

Lieutenant Nyota Uhura admitted to twisting the arm of her commanding officer for a spot on the starship; a spot that she felt she deserved. She was awarded the position of Chief Communications Officer.

Lieutenant Montgomery Scott apologized publicly for sending Admiral Barnett’s dog into space but put forward his refined equations for transwarp beaming and was officially installed as the Chief Engineer. Afterward, he had gone to Delta Vega, armed with sandwiches, and returned with Keenser in tow.

The entire time the proceedings went on, Chekov sat in the back of the audience with the rest of the crew and exchanged glances with them, amused and horrified at the number of rules that had been bent, twisted or completely snapped in half.

“I’m actually not sure I’ll be given the Enterprise,” Sulu admitted, when the session went into recess. They stood around, drinking coffee in the mess and talking to their fellow crewmates.

Chekov looked up from the cheese plate. “What?”

“McKenna’s recovered and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t take the alpha position at the helm.” Sulu said, frowning. “I’ll still be around, as the secondary pilot but you know that’s mostly boring stuff, staying in orbit, supply runs, things like that. The occasional landing party,” he finished, looking more troubled than Chekov had ever seen him look before.

Chekov snorted. “Of course, because you didn’t personally disable a Romulan drill through orbital space jump, fly the Enterprise into a sea of space flotsam without so much as a scratch and then empty your photon beams on a hostile alien ship and save the world.”

Sulu finally laughed. “Hey, it wasn’t McKenna’s fault he got lungworm!”

Chekov raised an eyebrow. “He can have his lungworms. You are getting that alpha position if I have to hack into the records and alter them myself. Everyone else has broken rules; I want to break some too.”

Sulu shook his head and laughed again. “Whoever’s been a bad influence on you, I don’t want to know.”

Naturally, the board of Admirals officially handed Sulu the helm, helped along by a passionate mission report Kirk and Commander Spock had submitted in the absence of the captain. Nobody was surprised, even though Sulu tried to act it, possibly a throwback to the mild polite self-deprecation that was part of his Japanese heritage. In fact, it dawned on Chekov that he had the only secure place on the bridge, even though he had his own personal suspicions that Spock had had a hand in convincing the board of admirals to overlook his age and allow him to take over tactical.

The only real surprise came when Pike put forward his semi-retirement and recommended that Kirk relieve him as captain. They were all there for that ceremony.

All of them except Commander Spock.

“Commander Spock?” Chekov said, sticking his head into Spock’s office. The Vulcan likely had much work to do but he was staring outside window instead, out toward the Golden Gate Bridge and possibly at the spot where the Romulan drill had fallen.

“Mister Chekov,” Spock acknowledged, turning slightly. “You have not gone on your shore leave.”

“I have some time, sir, I wanted to speak to you…and apologize,” Chekov said, putting down his bag and sitting on a chair.

“Apologize?”

“You’ve trained me, hard. And I failed you, with the inaccuracy of my transporter calculations,” Chekov began, looking at his lap. “I lost your mother, Commander Spock and that is something…I cannot hope to make up for. After all you’ve done for me.”

Spock looked at him for so long that Chekov began to fidget in his chair.

“Mister Chekov, when I was a boy, my mother was my greatest consolation, my staunchest ally. She knew I would be different, so she taught me how to be strong. I have always given her the benefit of the doubt because I attributed my strength to my Vulcan heritage.” Spock paused. “In that, I was greatly mistaken. Because of her death, I have realized many things, one of which is that the greatest lesson is forgiveness. Another was to learn from one’s mistakes.”

Spock looked at Chekov with a surprisingly human expression. “It wasn’t your fault, Mister Chekov. Logic dictates that you could have locked onto and lost any of the life signs. You could have lost any of the Vulcan elders, my father or even me. It was not your fault.” Spock turned to face him fully. “You have great potential, Mister Chekov. I do not want you to dwell on this.”

“Commander,” Chekov said. “I am sorry anyway.”

Spock studied him. “So am I.”

“Will you be returning to the Enterprise?” Chekov asked.

“I do not know.” Uncertainty, Chekov thought, wasn’t a good look on Spock.

“Oh,” Chekov said. “That is just you being stupid, I think.” And then he fled from Spock’s office.

 

There were somber times too. A memorial was held for all the crewmen and ships that were lost just before the Enterprise dropped out of warp to greet the Narada. The number of people lost was astounding and many of them were kept busy for days, to help ease the burden of so many officers. It was emotionally draining; the number of civilians they had to inform of the death of a loved one seemed endless and everyone took it to heart.

And then finally, it was over and everyone was given leave to go see their own loved ones.

 

Sulu was waiting for him in the transporter room, ready to be beamed right into the kitchen of Chekov’s house. In less than a month, the Enterprise would be docked at Starbase One and then prepared for the Enterprise’s five-year expedition. Chekov decided to take a few days to visit his parents because it would be years until he saw them again. He had been hesitant to ask Sulu but did it anyway and was gratified when he agreed, only to be maneuvered into agreeing to meet Sulu’s own family upon their return.

“Hey, did you know that McCoy snuck Kirk onto the Enterprise by pumping him full of alien virus?” Sulu said, by way of greeting. He was neatly dressed in his red uniform, a suitcase at his feet.

“What?” Chekov asked, practically stumbling into the transporter room.

Sulu rolled his eyes. “Let me,” he said, reaching for one of Chekov’s packs. Chekov handed it to him and let his fingers linger on Sulu’s hand.

“Are you okay?” Sulu asked and Chekov smiled at him.

“Alright, lads!” Scotty called from behind the control pad. “Do bring me back a nice little thing of vodka, would’ya? The strongest kind, none of that watered down business.”

 

“Thrusters and impulse engines ready, at your command, sir,” Sulu announced, the smile on his face growing wider, like it always did when he anticipated flight.

“Weapons systems and shields, on stand-by,” Chekov added, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. He glanced over at the Science station, a seat he knew Kirk left optimistically empty. Doctor McCoy hovered near it, a look of exasperation on his face. Chekov knew he didn’t much like the Vulcan but Kirk was his friend and he’d been requested on the bridge when it left for what was officially the Enterprise’s maiden voyage.

“We don’t get to break a bottle of Andorian rum on its nose?” McCoy had grumbled, when they were boarding the ship, laden with cargo.

“Bones, I don’t want to get my brand new ship all wet and sticky before I’m in her,” Kirk drawled, slinging an arm around McCoy’s shoulder. McCoy shrugged him off.

“Too late for that,” McCoy had muttered before leaving for his sickbay.

“See you on the bridge!” Kirk had shouted after him, before turning a distinctly naughty look at Chekov. “As you were, whiz kid.” They all disappeared into their assigned quarters to change and settle before resuming their duties.

Before Chekov knew it, it was time to leave.

“Docking control reports ready,” Uhura said, spinning around in her chair to face the bridge door, as it slid open. “Captain,” she acknowledged.

Kirk strode onto the bridge, his energy instantly infectious, in contrast to Pike’s infinite easy calm. He looked resplendent in gold and the look on his face was nothing short of ecstatic. He looked, to Chekov, completely at home.

“Bones,” he called out to the Doctor, currently keeping an eye at the still empty Science station. The doctor rolled his eyes at his friend. “Buckle up.” Kirk sat in the command chair and hailed the engine room.

“Scotty, how’re we going?” Kirk asked. Scotty’s brogue floated over the communicator.

“Dilithium chambers at maximum, captain,” he said. “Hey, get down!” Scotty shouted at someone. The bridge broke into laughter.

“Mister Sulu, prepare to engage thrusters,” Kirk said to Sulu.

“Permission to come aboard, Captain,” Spock said, stepping onto the bridge.

The look Sulu shot Chekov was both agonized and impressed. He turned in his chair, although his hands slid over the controls.

Chekov tried not to look too smug, entering the last command and then turned to face Sulu, one eyebrow raised.

“Told you,” Chekov said, leaning back in his chair. “You owe me.”

“Five years of this,” Sulu groaned, turning his attention back to his screen.

“Take us out,” Kirk ordered Sulu.

“Aye-aye, captain,” Sulu said, doing just that.

\- END -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story in 2009 and have moved it here from LJ years later but it seems to have held up. I hope after all this time it is still as enjoyable.
> 
> The thank yous still stand, even now:
> 
> Acknowledgments:  
> ♥ Thank you to Teddy (deadonarrival) for being the Kirk to my Spock and for being my writing buddy for years, across fandoms and simultaneously being my toughest critic and most enthusiastic cheerleader.
> 
> ♥ Thank you to Hope for reading the first draft even though she was crazy busy with her life and slapping me silly and telling me to pursue and finish it even though the first drafts were awful.
> 
> ♥ Thank you to adictd2life for putting together a badass fanmix and totally setting the mood for many a crucial part of this story. It was amazing to hear a mix that had not only a fantastic selection but was appropriate for this speculative reboot of Chekov's backstory.
> 
> ♥ Thank you to longleggedgit for not only drawing me the sweetest picture of my favorite scene but for also reading the early draft and providing positive and much needed feedback. Seriously, thank immensely for both the art and the feedback! (Will post it soon!)
> 
> Notes:  
> This story is a speculative piece surrounding Pavel Chekov with the bonus spin of my favorite ship! WOO! Anyway, I wrote this piece keeping in mind the development of Chekov and how he could possibly end up on the Enterprise at his age. The TOS Chekov (played by Walter Koenig) was also considered a prodigy and was the youngest crewmember in his early 20s. He was also considered to be Kirk's protege and aspired to follow his leadership and his footsteps (aka Kirk's number one fanboy). However, it seemed largely implausible in the reboot that this would happen. Because in TOS, Chekov occasionally took over the Spock's science station, it makes sense that he could be Spock's protege instead; after that, this story started making absolute sense.
> 
> Lots of research went into this story because I really wanted it to make sense but not leave out a lot of what I feel are very formative moments in Chekov's life. Some of the parts were lifted verbatim, so I have listed all my references down just in case. Everything else was own doing.
> 
> Aside from the 2009 movie, I have also taken advantage of Alan Dean Foster's novelization of the movie, which offers a much more comprehensive detail of the events during the seige of the Narada and also portrays all the crew with more depth. The novel's Chekov is very similar to TOS Chekov in temperament, though I hope I have managed to write him with a much younger perspective.
> 
> The Original Series was also helpful. Walter Koenig really is a joy to watch. Although Chekov was introduced only during the second season, the crew will not be the same without him.
> 
> The following books from the TOS book series were also integral:  
> \- Star Trek I: The Motion Picture, story by Alan Dean Foster. Really more hilarious and helpful for its footnotes more than its plot.
> 
> \- Star Trek III: The Search for Spock by Vonda N. McIntyr, based on the screenplay by Harve Bennett. If you've read or watched it, is really a story about how they stole a ship and went on a very dangerous space road trip. My favorite Chekov scenes are always the ones where he's under a massive amount of stress because he's a guy who will flawlessly pull through but not without a lot of bitching and moaning. This book is also priceless for Sulu-whumpage.
> 
> \- Doctor's Order by Diane Duane, really a McCoy book but has a great scene in the beginning where Chekov demonstrates his propensity for technobabble.
> 
> \- Home is the Hunter by Dana Kramer-Rolls, a great story where Chekov is thrown back in time to WWII Russia (also features Sulu and Scotty, in feudal Japan and 18th century Scotland). Another great book for revealing the character of Chekov (and Sulu) and one of the cooler stories about alternate realities.
> 
> \- The Kobayashi Maru by Julia Ecklar. A glimpse of their academy days, particularly about the way Kirk, Chekov, Scotty and Sulu (aka the only ones who took the KM test back in the day) and how they got through each one in their own way. Chekov's KM was very unique but I won't spoil it for you, unless you want me to, in which case, just ask. ;D
> 
> Aaaand of course, I recommend you read not just those but all the old school TOS novels if you can because they really are good. Like big bangs in book form.
> 
> The chapter titles are from Herodotus, except for chapter five, which is Einstein.  
> The little picture things are from various sites, all taken through Google images.
> 
> This is the longest story I have written and my first attempt at a big bang, thank you for reading. :D


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